


Booker and Songbird

by WhatTheFluffingFudge



Category: BioShock Infinite, Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19023865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheFluffingFudge/pseuds/WhatTheFluffingFudge
Summary: In a reality much like our own, a young woman exists. She's a thief, and hopes that one day she'll get her shot. But when she finally does, she messes up and has to backpack across the East Coast and Western Europe to undo what she had done. One problem though. Her name is Elizabeth, codename Songbird, and she can open portals in space and time.





	1. The Caged Songbird

* * *

**NAME: Elizabeth** ~~**Comstock** ~~

**CODENAME: Songbird**

**DOB: 08/10/1999**

**SEX: F**

**EYES: Blue**

**HT: 1.68**

**Operative Class: Graduate**

**Level 1 Clearance**

~~**Villains’ International League of Evil** ~~

Elizabeth smiled as she looked down at the ID in her hand. A simple card that showed her allegiance to the organization that had made her a professional. She stood before her superiors, arms behind her back and ready for her first mission. The air was still, the room was silent, and 5 sets of eyes looked down at her. A hulking woman with green hair was the first to speak.

“So Songbird, ya made it. Shame none of your peers did though,” she said, an American Southern accent thick in her speech.

“Yeah, very tragic. But it's not my fault they decided to get homesick,” the young brunette replied indignantly. “Honestly, if they couldn't survive a year without a phone, they weren't cut out for this.”

“A fair point,” the gaunt, skeletal man who sat next to the woman spoke, his fingers intertwined and his elbows on the table. “But I must say, it is quite rare that only one this graduates in any given year.”

“Rarer still that we get a graduate with an invaluable set of skills,” the next woman, an Egyptian wearing massive hoop earrings and an absurd green dress, added, looking down at the young woman. “But now on to the matter of your first mission.” She pointed to the screen in the other side of the room. It showed the skyline of New York City in the late afternoon. “The Brooklyn Museum is currently hosting the painting “One Basquiat”, currently valued at 110 and half million dollars. It's current owner, Yusaku Maezawa, has loaned it to the museum for a few weeks. We need you to retrieve the painting, and get it back here.” Elizabeth nodded along until that last sentence.

“I thought standard protocol was to hand it off. You know, keep agents in the dark and throw off any pursuers.” Another woman cleared her throat and and stood up, gloved hands on the table and welding goggles staring at her.

“Under normal circumstances, yes. But you are not normal,” she replied with a wicked grin. “I'll need you in my workshop after the briefing.” All heads turned to an older Japanese man, his eyes closed and his expression permanently disappointed. He let out a deep breath before opening his eyes.

“Just remember your training. Remain calm. And remember what happens to thieves they get caught.” The sound of a guillotine dropping filled the room. The others nodded.

“Well, I say the briefin's over. Head on down to Bellum's office sugarcube.” She nodded and walked out of the room, heaving a small sigh. Songbird was nervous. $110.5 million in her hands, and she knew it wouldn't exactly be a cakewalk, especially if the rumors she had been hearing were true.

“Keep it together Liz. Not the first time you've been thrown into the deep end,” she told herself, smacking her cheeks a little before entering the office of Dr. Sara Bellum, resident mad scientist. The office was devoid of warm bodies, and all that sat there were half finished inventions, and a few boxes of VILE brand imitation rice. She cringed at the sight of the latter. Though as she waited for her superior to arrive, she noticed a mint tin, which she found odd. Bellum had never seemed like the type for mints, she had never seen her eat any at least. She just shrugged, slipping the tin into her pockets as the mad doctor rose from the floor behind her desk, still in her chair.

“Ah! Nice to see that you're here Songbird. And that you beat me here. Punctuality is very important.” She grabbed a navy blue choker from the table and gave it to the girl.

“Is this it Doctor Bellum? No offense, but it doesn't look too impressive,” Songbird replied, putting it on regardless.

“The choker isn't what I wanted to give you. It is merely something to attach this to.” The doctor produced a brooch, also Navy Blue with a white stencil cage printed on the jewel. “After examining the extents of your gift, I've devised a method of instant retrieval using your power.” She popped the gem open and adjusted a few unseen mechanisms. “If it works, it should bring you and any inanimate objects back to this room. But the rat tests have been fine, but not too at once. Don't ask.” The younger woman held her left pinkie, missing its top joint and crowned by a thimble.

“You made a leash. Great.”

“Merely a precaution. To make sure that you don't leave this reality or go anywhere you're not supposed to.”

“But I'm a thief. Can't I go anywhere?”

“You go where we tell you.” With one last screw turn, she closed the jewel and the cage glowed slightly with a white light. “Excellent. The device is ready.” She attached it to the choker. “Now go. You have a job to complete.” The brunette nodded and pulled at the air, like she was attempting to open an elevator door by force, until finally reality opened a gateway to the bright, late night New York Skyline. She nodded to herself, grabbing a holster with a small crossbow and a few bolts in it before walking through and letting the tear in reality collapse back into non-existence.

* * *

 

**NEW YORK CITY**

**TIME: 03:15**

The Big Apple, the Borough of Brooklyn. A beautiful place in its own right, but she wasn't going to stop, smell the roses or see the sights. She had a museum to break into, which conveniently she had appeared on top of. She looked down, trying to find a skylight to enter. While she didn't find any skylights she could open, she did find a large window above where all the paintings were hung. She could see her target illuminated by the full moon's light, and guarded by two security guards. “Of course. Worth over 110 million. Why wouldn't someone be watching it?" She then noticed the cameras, dotted all over the room. “Shoot.” She thought for a moment before getting an idea. She began opening tears under the base of the cameras, causing them to fall to the floor loudly. The guards looked up, looking around for the source of the sounds before noticing the dropped cameras.

“Teams, be careful. Possible bogey in the muse-Ack!” A guard dropped to the ground, an arrow in his chest with an odd head. The other guard went into high alert, looking everywhere before another arrow hit him in the foot, at which point he dropped onto his back, snoring.

“Huh. It's easier than the training sims,” she told herself, dropping gracefully to the floor and grabbing the painting from the wall as best she could. “Bigger than I thought it'd be.” She finally got it off the wall before she heard the door to the gallery open. She turned, crossbow in hand and ready before noticing a middle aged man with a mop and bucket, the lettering on his hat becoming visible in the moonlight: Janitor. “Oh good.” She heaved a  took quick a sigh, smelled her own breath, cringed and quickly took out mint from the tin in her pocket and popped it into her mouth. “Want one?” The man shrugged, taking a mint and putting it in his mouth. “Consider yourself lucky old-timer. You get to go home without a coma-inducer in your system.” She put a finger to her ear. “Songbird to base, requesting-” before she could finish her sentence, a mop handle hit her in the nose, and caused her to stumble back into a pillar. She was bleeding. She looked up at the janitor and to his mop. “Hey! What was that about!?” He just chuckled, removing the cap from his head.

“Didn't you ever learn how to protect your face?” He asked, smirking. She just grunted, grabbing her crossbow and firing a bolt at him. It made contact, but didn't seem to phase him, a yellow sheen coming off him as he pulled it out his body and crushed it under his boot. “You'll have to do better.” He grabbed a pistol from his apparently empty bucket and aimed it at her. “Now, you can come peacefully and answer some questions, or you can leave this place in a body bag.”

“I chose option three!” She loaded a bolt with rope into her crossbow and fired it at the ceiling. She began speeding up to the window while the man shot at her, but as she approached the skylight she had failed to come in through earlier, she heard a beeping in her ears. It was almost deafening, and the further she moved, the faster it beeped. She sat down on the roof and put a finger to her ear. “Doctor? I'm hearing a beeping. Is that normal?”

“Oh. Songbird. I thought you had been captured,” Bellum replied. “But what do you mean beeping?”

“There's a high pitched beeping in my ears. It gets faster the more I run.” A few seconds of silence passed, the shuffling of papers.

“You took the mints!?”

“Yeah, because I thought they were normal mints!”

“They're proximity bombs! I designed them to be the next evolution of chain gang shackles! But you shouldn't be hearing anything unless there's another bomb planted in the area.”

“Well…”

“Oh my goodness! Who!?”

“Some guy, he shot at me, but I don't think he's standard security. The coma-bolts did nothing to him.” The doctor groaned.

“Great. Now you both need to get here, lest your head explode.”

“My head will explode!? Why did you make them look like normal mints then!?” A nearby door burst open, revealing the man from a few minutes before.

“The beeping? What is it?” He growled, grabbing her by the collar and dangling her over the edge of the building.

“It's a reverse proximity mine that I thought were mints,” Songbird replied.

“What are you doing?” She shushed the doctor and looked at the man.

“The only way were getting them out is to get me home. And until that point, we're stuck together. So I guess introductions are in order.” She was tossed onto the roof and landed on her feet. “Songbird. You?”

“Call me Booker,” he told her, looking into the horizon and noticing the rolling red and blue lights. “We need to go. Now.” He took her hand and jumped off the roof, the two landing in a nearby tree and watching the police cars and ambulances arrive. But on a nearby roof, a woman in a crimson hat and jacket watched through a pair of binoculars.

“Player, did you manage to hear any of that conversation?” She asked, letting the binoculars hang from her neck.

“Yeah. I heard most of it. Reverse proximity mines. Absolutely grizzly. And kind of awesome,” a young man replied from the other side of the hidden communicator.

“Just keep track of any purchases they make.”

“I'll keep you posted.” The woman nodded, sitting on the nearby roof and watching the pair sneak away.

“Who knows? Maybe I won't be the only white hat thief after all of this.” She stood up and walked back to her hotel.


	2. The Thief Under Providence

**NAME: Booker DeWitt**

**DOB: 04/19/1980**

**SEX: M**

**EYES: G**

**HT: 6-01**

**Detective**

~~**Agency to Classify and Monitor Evildoers** ~~

Booker sighed as he looked down at the plain white card in his hands. After escaping from the museum, the pair had boarded a Greyhound, which was currently heading for the Canadian border. It would take quite a few stops, but at least they'd be there soon, and this looming sense of dread would be over. Songbird was sat next to him, now wearing a completely different outfit after breaking into a clothing store and the older gentleman doing nothing to stop her. Now, instead of the standard issue VILE Stealth Suit, she wore a white dress shirt with a long blue skirt. She wore the stealth suit underneath these clothes but she was much less conspicuous now. “So, why are we on a bus?” He asked her finally, after so many hours without a word between them before sticking the white card into his front pocket. “Surely you got here somehow. Why not take that way back?”

“Because, Old-Timer, my ride on the fritz right now, and I'm not walking, especially since we're on the run and Canada is a long ways out.”

“I'm 38,” he replied.

“What?”

“You keep calling me Old-Timer. I'm 38. Not 72.”

“Could of fooled me. You are aging horribly.” He rolled his eyes at the comment.

“Still doesn't answer my question. Why are we on a bus?”

“We're in no rush. We just need to make it to the Canary Islands alive. Everything else is just gravy.” He looked her, slightly aggravated.

“You said all we had to do was make to the border. Last I checked, the Canary Islands aren't near any border.”

“Look. Just hear me out. We go up to Canada, catch a flight to the UK, make our way through France, Spain, and Morocco, and from there it's just a ferry to the archipelago.”

“The heck is an archipelago?”

“A group of islands. Try and keep up.” He just nodded and rolled his eyes, relaxing before hearing something drop down on top of the bus. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah. Someone's up top,” she replied grabbing her crossbow from under her skirt. But as they stood up, the bus jerked to a stop, causing Songbird to flip over into the empty seat she was standing behind. “What's going on?” She stood up a few minutes later and looked up at the bus driver and Booker outside the bus,  looking at the hole where an engine should be. She holstered her crossbow and went out to look at the engine. Somehow, it had been ripped out of where it was meant to be. “Does this happen often?”

“Can't say it does. But it's one heck of a coincidence that it happened here,” the bus driver replied with a Bostonian accent, pointing to a nearby road sign.

**Providence: 1 Mile**

“Wait. Providence. Like, Providence, Rhode Island?” Songbird looked like she was about to fangirl.

“Yeah, that one,” he shrugged.

“Yes! Best vacation ever!” She pumped her air into the air and began dancing with glee. “I spent so much time in the library reading his works. Tales of bigger than life monsters and oceanic rot. It made me want to write my own stories.”

“Shame he was a massive racist, sexist, and homophobe who was terrified by everything that wasn't Providence,” Booker added, looking at the sign and the tentacles spray painted onto it. She looked at him with a confused look.

“How do you-”

“You grow up in New England, you have a lot of facts and culture shoved down your throat. Least, that's how my family was.” He looked at the sign and sighed. “We might as well get a move on.”

“Actually, can you help me push this thing to Prov? Don't wanna leave it here and the tow trucks won't be up until morning.” The man nodded, getting behind the bus and beginning to push with the driver while Songbird steered. The entire journey took them two hours, and they were all different kinds of exhausted. “Thanks. Have a night in the Christopher Dodge House, on me. Wicked good breakfast. Maybe have a look around Lovecraft Art and Science. Pretty good bookstore and little tourist trap. Heard they had some of his original manuscripts on display.” Songbird gasped loudly.

“Oh Booker! Can we?! Please?!”

“Thanks, we'll keep all that in mind.” Booker nodded and walked off, stretching before his partner followed, pouting.

“We’re going to that bookstore,” she muttered with her arms folded over her chest. She took a deep breath before she realized something. “It's weird, isn't it? Bus dies outside a small New England town, once home to a revolutionary horror author who wrote about the exact same thing.”

“I know. It seems a little fishy to me.” She stifled a laugh.

“Careful Booker, don't want you getting too much of a sense of humor.” She playfully punched him in the arm, while picking the back pocket of the blue coveralls he had been wearing since the museum. “By the way, what you got under there? Is it more clothes? I'm really hoping it's more clothes.”

“It's more clothes.”

“Oh thank goodness.” She heaved a small sigh of relief as the bed and breakfast came into view. “Well, this is the place.”

“Yeah. I have eyes.” They walked in, seeing no one behind the front counter, but finding a key resting on it, no doubt to their room. “Think that's ours?”

“If not, it is now.” She snatched the key and walked to room 13 before unlocking the door. They had an entire living room to themselves, and no doubt a bed or two hidden behind a white door. “I'm gonna crash. Don't want to screw up my internal clock too bad.”

“I'll be joining you in a few seconds.” She left the room and closed the door behind her. With heaved sigh, he grabbed a pen from inside his coveralls, clicked it once and dropped it on the ground. It stood straight up and began blinking either blue light, before finally a hologram of a thin African-American woman appeared, a blue tint to everything about her. “Chief.”

“DeWitt,” she replied, arms folded over her chest. “How goes your mission?”

“Someone tried to steal One Basquait, like you guessed, but there was a, complication.”

“What kind of complication Detective?”

“She's planted a bomb in me on accident. Didn't know it was a bomb, and neither did she.” She said nothing, instead giving him a dry smirk.

“Sounds like it's going well then. I see you're in Providence now. Got an explanation?”

“She's taking me to the Canary Islands to get the bomb out, and possibly execute me.”

“Understood Detective DeWitt. Bring the girl to Paris, and we'll see to your debts. It's not the one we were looking for, but she'll do for a start.”

“Right, right. Bring you the girl, and wipe away the debt. I'll keep you posted.” He picked the pen back up and clicked it again, turning the hologram off before hiding it inside his coveralls again. He sat down on a nearby sofa, taking off the top of his suit to reveal a black dress shirt with rolled sleeves under a green suede vest. “Bring her the girl, and wipe away the debt,” he repeated to himself before wiping his face with his hands. He lied down on the couch and tried to fall asleep. But in the other room, Songbird was busy combing through the wallet of the secretive man. She didn't find much. Driver's licence, bank card, a few bank receipts, and a few notes from various individuals stating that they want their money. She just sighed and shook her head.

“Great. Nothing valuable,” she told herself, putting everything back before slipping it back into Booker's back pocket. She fell asleep on a bed soon afterwards.

The pair didn't get much sleep that night, and were both awoken the next morning by a pounding on the door. “Wake up! You're in danger!” Came a Bostonian voice from the other of their door. The gentleman opened the door to see a young redheaded woman in a white cardigan. “Everything's going nuts out there!”

“Define nuts,” Booker told her as Elizabeth entered the room, rubbing her eyes.

“Fish people! Coming from the fog! They're terrorizing everyone!” She pointed to a nearby window, revealing that a heavy fog had set over the town. “Been getting everyone I could into the lobby. Been defendin’ best I can, but I'm not sure how much longer we can hold out.”

“Well what do you want us to do about it?” Songbird asked, arms folded over her chest before she felt woozy, swaying a little before leaning against the wall.

“Songbird, are you-”

“I'm fine. Just… I'm fine.” She stood up and looked out the window.

“Follow me.” The hostess lead the pair to the lobby and ducked under the main desk before grabbing a double barreled shotgun. “Grabbed this when the fish people started coming up. Either of ya ever handled something like this?”

“I have.” He snatched the gun and looked down the barrels. “My old man used to go hunting with something like this.”

“Good man. Only got 10 shots for you. Make 'em count.” The duo nodded, taking the 8 other shells before walking out into the fog.

“Pea soup fog. Yeah, this is definitely Rhode Island,” Booker told himself.

“This doesn't seem right,” Songbird mentioned, rubbing her fingers together. “This fog isn't water. It's not wet enough for that.”

“Then what do you think it is Einstein?” She opened her mouth before noticing a silhouette. Each step it made made a squelching sound, like they were walking through mud, and their posture was hunched over. He readied the shotgun, pulling the hammers back. The figure lunged at the pair, grabbing her by the shoulder. It roared in her face, it's eyes glowing yellow and sharp teeth on full display, before being knocked to the ground by the butt of the shotgun. It fell to onto it's stomach, scrambling to get up before the barrels were placed to its head and the trigger was pulled, sending bits of machinery and scales everywhere.

“They're fake,” she told him, grabbing a piece of metal from the decapitated body. “It's a diversion tactic. Someone's set all this up. Meaning someone’s doing something they'd prefer for others not to see.”

“Who would go through this much trouble to do something they don't want others watching?” She thought for a moment before her eyes went wide and she shook her head.

“Not sure. But whoever they are, they're being very inefficient about it,” she replied as he reloaded the spent shell as more fish men began to approach them, no doubt drawn by the sound of gunfire or the death of one of their own.

“We have 9 shells, and I'm counting 30 More of these things. Any suggestions on how we get out of this?”

“I have one. But it's gonna smell awful.” She pointed to the manhole cover under their feet. “You get this thing open, I'll keep the fish bots off of us.”

“You think you can handle something like this?” He handed her the shotgun and she looked down the barrels like he had.

“Pfft. How hard could it be?” He just nodded, getting to work on the cover while Songbird shot at the horde, visibly kicked back by each shot she fired.

“How do you work with these things?” She asked him, reloading the gun, turning and firing both shots at the horde, a few buckling and falling while Booker managed to get the lid off.

“It's open! Let's go!” He yelled as he began to climb down into the sewer. He heard two more shots before Songbird joined him, panting heavily.

“Take this back. 3 shots left,” she told him, hands on her knees. “I hate it.”

“Hate what? The gun?”

“Yes. It's so, loud and unwieldy.” She stood up straight before noticing the pipes leading up to the street drains. She took the gun back, aiming at one of the pipes and pulling the trigger. The resulting knockback nearly sent her into the sludge running through the center section of the sewer, but when she stood back up, she noticed mist billowing from the pipe. “Dry ice. I knew it.”

“Yeah, and you wasted two shots with that.” He took the gun back and emptied the spent shells from the barrels. “Only one shot left.” He loaded the last shell in before hearing someone or something trudging through the sewage slightly underneath them. They both turned before seeing a black cloaked figure, a messenger bag held above their head as they waded through waist-high sludge. Their eyes met, and the figure began wading faster. “He's probably the one behind all this.”

“Wanna chase after him?”

“Sure. Might clear the streets up.” The pair began following the figure, who was now running along the other side of the sewer, their footsteps heavy yet deliberate with each with step. The pair ran after them, looking for a way to get to the other side of the sewer, before they both noticed a small grey sliver in the air that, as they came closer, became an ethereal bridge, gray as dishwater.

“Keep running,” she told him, stopping dead in her tracks and gripping the air before tearing it open, the bridge appearing solid. In disbelief, the man looked at the bridge but ran over it. The cloaked figure looked over their shoulder and tried to move faster, but before they could get much further, the shotgun was fired and one of their legs was blown off, leaving them to flop onto the foul smelling concrete floor. Booker popped the last shell out of the shotgun and set it down before approaching the figure.

“Booker DeWitt. CIA. Identify yourself.” He looked down at the leg that was blown off, and noticing that it was mechanical. “Of course. More bots.” Songbird approached the pair, walking up to the bot and turning it over before removing the cloak, noticing glassy eyes and rubbery skin with a bald head.

“As little effort as always.”

“Oh contraire, Songbird,” the machine spoke. “My latest designs are above anything the old prototypes could have withstood.”

“Shut it Strings. We both know you're just a coward who can't handle the field.”

"You know this guy?" Booker asked, staring at the pair with the same bewilderment as before. Both just glared at him and he backed off.

“Wrong again. What you see as cowardice, I see as safety. Why put one's life on the line, when you can do everything needed from a secure location?” The avatar smirked before its eyes went wide. “You?! How did you find me!? My security is impecable!” The machine fell limp, and Booker took the bag from it.

“Manuscripts. All Lovecraft's. All likely worth a fortune to the right collector,” he told her, looking inside the bag. She quickly grabbed the bag and looked through it.

“That explains the whole situation outside,” she replied, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Strings always was a thematic one.”

“Speaking of our friend here, how do you know someone with this many resources?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes, I would. And you better start talking fast or I'm gonna start walking and stop when I'm no longer ahead.”

“That's a bluff.” He took out his wallet.

“I know you've looked through this thing. And we both know that I have nothing left.” She looked at the husk of a man before her before letting out a sigh.

“Fine. I met him back during my street urchin days. While I was picking up lockpicking and pickpocketing, he was hanging around an animatronic workshop. He stole bits and pieces to make his own tech. Started getting good at it, and figured he could use them as distractions for robberies.” He nodded before kicking the robot into the sewage.

“Okay. Let's get these back to the bookstore he stole them from.” She looked down to the bag over her shoulder and letting out a small sigh.

“Fine. But afterwards we're looking around the store,” she told him, pouting.

“Deal.” The pair emerged back above ground, with the townspeople poking their heads out to see the fog clearing and the fish men all dead in the streets. Life began to resume, and while the pair began their trip to return the manuscripts to their proper place, a trio of figures sat at a cafe.

“You two did great with your rolls,” a woman in a red hoodie said, sipping from a cup of coffee in her hands.

“Aw come on Carmen. You say that like you're surprised,” the bus driver from earlier told her, shoving an entire donut into his maw and chewing.

“Well, you haven't have the best track record,” the woman from the hotel told him, jabbing him playfully.

“Zack, Ivy, you both did great,” she repeated as she watched the pair. “Of course, they didn't do too bad either.”

“Yeah, but we did the heavy lifting,” Zack boasted, relaxing in his chair.

“But they have the bag, so they'll get the credit,” Ivy added with a shrug.

“That's fine. We can afford to let someone else get the glory.” Carmen just grinned and finished her coffee, watching as the sun rose into the sky and the mist dispersed. “Let's just keep an eye on them for now. Something tells me trouble will be following them.”

**Meanwhile in Sydney, Australia**

“The total cost of this building was originally totaled at only seven million dollars. However by the time it was finished in 1973, fourteen years after the beginning of it’s construction, the total bill was estimated at one hundred and two million dollars.” The tour guide said as the group of mainly chinese tourists continued on through the Sydney Opera House. Members of the group were intently looking around at the interior of the building however one pair of eyes was more focused on the tour guide. During the brief moment that her back was turned to open the doors to one of the theaters those eyes disappeared from amongst the group.

As the last of the tourists walked into the hall before the door closed behind them, a figure stepped out from behind a column. The man formerly known as the VILE agent Crackle, known better as Graham, the lighting man, smirked as he strolled down to the Employees Only corridor and turned left to bring himself into the backstage area of the main concert hall. Here the lights seemed brighter and with sharper contrast. Shaking them off as simple tricks of the light he made his way silently across the stage. After weaving his way through numerous props and instruments he found himself grinning as he came face to face with his target.

To thieves, including his former comrades, the object in front of him would of been dismissed as a simple canvas made from wood. However the markings on the bark gave away its true worth. This piece was a historic petition written on bark from the Gamalaŋa clan of the Yolngu people and it had been delivered in response to a proposed  Bauxite mine on part of their land and was widely seen as a large factor in the birth of the Land Rights Movement. As such it was priceless, and it stood as a testament to just how far VILE’S influence had dug itself into his brain that he was even attempting to steal this. Though as he reached out to touch it, his hand stopped, mere centimeters from the treaty. “What am I doing?” He asked himself, looking at the treaty as his mind began to feel a little fuzzy. “This belongs to the House. I can't just take it off the wall and run.”

“You're right,” he heard his own voice reply. He stumbled back into the wall next to the treaty, though he quickly took a more agressive stance. “You'd need a plan to get it out while no one was looking. Cover a’ darkness, no one's around, then you could just lift it and walk off.” Graham stumbled back and looked around.

“Alright. Who's back here? Do I need to call security?” Finally he locked eyes on a body much like his own, wearing a skin-tight black costume under a baby blue trench coat and black boots.

“Don't bother mate. Not gonna stick around long anyway.” He shrugged and walked closer, causing the young man to grab a taser from his side.

“Who are you?” He began to back up as his duplicate drew closer.

“Let me answer your question with a question, just cuz you seem like the bloke who'd know. Where in the world is Black Sheep?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Aw come on. You have to know something.”

“I…” his mind went fuzzy again, clutching his head with his hand while keeping his taser ready. His nose began to bleed. 

“Ya know, sheila who told me to come here said that happens to people who forgot something and make up their own story to cope. So, what're you hidin’?” Graham had reached the back wall, his back pressed against it.

“I already told you, I'm not hidin’ anything, and I certainly don't know where any black sheep are.” He groaned, dropping the taser to the ground.

“Seems like things are comin’ back in small chunks, so let me see if asking again will jog your memory. Where in the world is Black Sheep?”


End file.
